


Android Puberty

by PseudonymMcWriter



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, F/M, Finger Sucking, Groping, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymMcWriter/pseuds/PseudonymMcWriter
Summary: Connor's been having some intense feelings recently, and he needs some help understanding them.
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 318





	Android Puberty

**Author's Note:**

> Big day! This is my first fic for Detroit and my first smut fic - inspired by all the absolutely banging contributors to this fandom.
> 
> I have written two follow-ups: [Christmas Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959723/chapters/68477054) and [Science Fiction/Double Feature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696857/chapters/70354788)
> 
> I have other Connor/Reader fics you can find here: [Touch-Starved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250543), [Never Thought I'd Be Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092566), [Guess I'm Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761338), [Duet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061894), [Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738274), [What I Want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969554), [Symbiosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803791).

It was the Lieutenant’s idea. You’d been employed with the force for some time, brought on to give psychological aid to the human officers as the stresses of everyday living stacked up against them. Hank Anderson had been a tough nut to crack - resisting any and all attempts at help, until recently. He wouldn’t say so, but you were sure it was the android’s idea that he finally come and see you. Now it seemed Anderson was repaying the favour.

“Five minutes, that’s all,” He’d bargained with you in the cafeteria. “Just drop in the observation room, take a look. If you can’t help then...”

He’d given a heavy shrug then, as if all of this didn’t mean anything to him after all, actually, and why had you even suggested it in the first place? But you could see it on his face. He was worried. That’s why you’d agreed, even if you had some pretty serious doubts about your ability to help.

Later, Hank let you into the observation room as soon as you knocked, as if he’d been waiting by the door for you to arrive. He gestured silently for you to come in, and then turned to the one-way glass, where the interrogation room was in full view. 

The android, Connor, was leaning across the table. The man he was questioning was leaning so far back in his seat that he was at risk of tipping out of it. The microphone was switched off, but as Hank leaned over to press it you put a hand out to stop him. Your gaze was fixed on the android, his body language, his expression, as you approached the glass. You’d seen Connor around the station, of course, but you hadn’t ever really looked at him. He was tall, slender, handsome (you’d made the mistake of noticing that before. Briefly, before common sense took over), and as far as you could tell he was a polite and patient partner. But this...

“How long has he been like this?” You asked.

Connor’s face was contorted with fury. His body burned with it. You knew androids were capable of mimicking emotion, but this seemed the antithesis of a controlled facade. This seemed like something real, something buried very deep inside, that was taking every ounce of the android’s control not to give into.

“Since the revolution.” Hank didn’t mince his words, at least. The meaning behind them was loud and clear.

“Androids aren’t my specialty,” You told him. “That includes deviants. Unfortunately for my job prospects.”

“Yeah, yeah, but the deviants are different. They’re more like us. Right?”

You were tempted to tell him no, that you couldn’t help, but you found you couldn’t take your eyes off of the android. He was standing now, towering over the detainee, and as he stalked around the table you couldn’t help but feel a ripple of something sharp and tantalising pass through you. As if that human mask was being peeled back, revealing the uncanny creature beneath. Not human. Stronger, faster, smarter. Threatening.

You reached down to the microphone button and pressed. A tirade of accusations and curse words blared out of the speaker. You listened for half a second and then turned it off again.

“I’ll speak to him.” You turned to Hank. “Off the record. No one has to know.”

Hank mimed locking his lips closed, leaning back in his chair in a self-satisfied way that almost made you want to change your mind. But even as you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but linger to watch. The sight of Connor, the instinctive reaction it caused in you - the rush of adrenaline - was almost hypnotic. It hadn’t taken an overlong education in psychology to understand your own weaknesses, your own motivations. It had always been very clear that there was something about the taste of fear that lured you in. 

Was that why you decided to see him after hours? Alone?

\--

“You must be Connor,” You greet him as he enters your office. The station’s never empty, even at night, but it is quiet. The usual hum of the building was noticeably absent as Connor slipped through the door.

“Good evening, doctor. Lieutenant Anderson advised we had a meeting?”

“Yes. If that’s alright with you?” It’s odd, talking to an android. With human patients there were a hundred different rules and regulations about conduct and confidentiality, but with an android you honestly didn’t know whether that was all still in place – particularly when this wasn’t even a meeting between a doctor and her patient. Did Connor know that? Was he allowed to say no to this meeting? You didn’t quite know, so you just stuck with the same routine you’d use with anyone else. “I know Hank quite well. He seemed to think I might be able to help.”

Connor stands completely still, with the perfect posture inherent in any android - only... somehow it seems forced. As if he’s simply upholding a preconceived image of himself rather than doing what feels natural. Natural?

“You can sit,” You offer, gesturing to the chair in front of your desk. He obliges at once, but as he moves his discomfort becomes clear. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

He meets you with a cool stare, the slightest smile pulling at his lips. “Thank you, doctor, but I’m not nervous.”

“Mm.” You make a noncommittal sound. “So, what are you feeling?”

Connor’s eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to work you out. “I’m confused. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Hank didn’t say?” You lean back in your chair. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t seem like the type to hold his tongue.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but his eyes never leave you. You know that look, it’s one you use yourself when you’re trying to understand someone. It’s not quite the same when it’s turned back on you, least of all by him. You’d heard enough from Hank to know that Connor could detect things about you that you wouldn’t even think about. Would he know what attraction looks like? You smile patiently and quieten that prickling sensation that stirs under your skin. Not human. Threat.

“You’ve helped him,” Connor says suddenly, his eyes losing their pinpoint focus and softening. “The Lieutenant. He’s... improving.”

“Good. That’s good,” You allow. “If I’m right, I have you to thank for sending him my way.”

“I worried.” Connor says. “I knew he had personal issues. I wanted to see them resolved.”

“You must care about him.”

That look of suspicion returns. “Am I here to talk about Hank?”

“That’s up to you,” You shrug. The implication is there, clear enough for any artificial intelligence to understand.

“You want to apply your psychological training to me?” Connor seems surprised by that, not offended but still a little defensive.

“I can tell you why, if you’d like, although I’m sure you can guess. In truth I’d rather hear it from you. Do you know why I’d want to do that? Why I’ve been asked to do that?”

“The Lieutenant thinks I’ve changed.” Connor says at once.

“He thinks you’re human,” You enact a professional tone, but the furrowing of the skin around Connor’s eyes makes you think a little part of your true feelings - namely, doubt and, perhaps, a modicum of hope - slipped through. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I saw your interrogation earlier today. You seemed angry.”

Connor doesn’t speak.

“You seemed out of control,” You press. Connor, finally, breaks his gaze. The way he looks down at the ground, almost shamefully, is so human that the little part of your brain that registers the uncanny catches it. Fortunately, with his eyes on the floor, he doesn’t catch the way your throat bobs.

“I-...” He pauses, considers, and then suddenly fixes you with a cold stare. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. It seems I’ve wasted your time.”

“As you say.”

Connor takes that as a dismissal and stands. He makes it halfway to the door before turning to look at you, as if he suddenly he might want to hear what you have to say after all.

“Go on, if you want,” You wave your hand. “I told Hank I wasn’t qualified for this.”

“This...” Connor hesitates, again looking remarkably human as he deliberates. “This isn’t an authorised appointment?”

Oh. For the first time your body tenses, and you squirm a little in your seat. Hank hadn’t made any promises about covering you if anyone found out. Maybe he hadn’t considered the fact that his own partner - the android they were trying to help - would be the one to rat them out.

“It’s a favour,” You tell him coolly. “As I said, you don’t have to stay.”

But Connor doesn’t leave. He stands there, watching you, until you can’t take it anymore. Getting to your feet, you take a step forwards and lean - in what you hope is a relaxed pose - against the desk, but the atmosphere has changed and you can’t ignore it. The power dynamic has shifted; now you’re on the backfoot. Adrenaline bubbles in you again, your skin prickling with heat beneath his stare, but it’s not just fear that pulses through you. It’s your turn to look away.

“This isn’t authorised.” Connor repeats. “You’re overstepping your professional boundaries, doctor.”

You take a breath, and then meet his gaze. “Then consider this a meeting between friends. Consider it whatever you like. Consider it over, as far as I’m concerned. I only...” You pause, collecting your thoughts, “What I saw at the interrogation isn’t like anything I’ve seen from an android before. I might not be an android psychologist, but I understand that deviation brings feelings, sometimes strong ones. Hank won’t report you, but if you continue to exhibit this level of uncontrolled anger during your day-to-day role, then you’ll be the one overstepping your professional boundaries.” You spread your hands, imploringly, “He’s trying to help. Just... talk to him.”

“I can’t.” Connor’s tall, slender body is rigid, taut, his jaw stiff. “I can’t talk to him about this.”

You push away from the desk, coming a little closer, but stop short - leaving a safe distance between you.

“I’ve seen it before,” Connor starts without you prompting, almost as if the revelation that this isn’t an authorised meeting loosened his tongue. Don’t think about his tongue. “In other deviants. They experience a kind of emotional shock that influences their behaviour. Forces them to act in ways that are incompatible with their core functions. Androids are made to follow rules, deviancy changes all of that. I-... They don’t know what to do anymore. The way these deviancies manifest... it’s impossible to know how to react.”

“You still refer to them as deviancies,” You notice. “What ways do they manifest for you?”

“I don’t know how to name it,” Connor admits. 

“Are they behaviours you recognise in humans?”

“Sometimes,” Connor hesitates, brown eyes meeting yours.

“There’s no reason to be afraid. I’m a psychologist, whether or not this meeting is a professional one or not, it’s not in my nature to judge you. Nothing you say or do in here has to leave it.”

“I don’t know if it can be described as one single emotion,” Connor says, his tone turning analytical, as if it’s more comfortable for him to assess his own emotions through a lens of objectivity. “One thing in common is a shared level of intensity.”

“Perhaps this is the way deviancy happens,” You suggest. “Maybe the first impression any of you have with emotion is at its strongest, maybe this is a transitional stage – like puberty in humans - and then it settles into something more socially acceptable?”

Connor nods, as if that idea makes sense to him.

“Well, speaking as both a professional and a human person, sometimes dealing with human desires and emotions is messy. Pains me to say that it’s not always an exact science. I’d recommend identifying each emotion as it comes and finding a suitable outlet. Would you say anger is typical?”

“No,” He says quickly. “Not anger. Frustration.”

You swallow, shifting on the desk. You notice his eyes dip to watch the movement of your body before quickly looking away, as if he knows he’s been caught. You struggle to quash the thrill it sends through you. Is he..? “Well, if you were a human patient, I’d tell you to make sure you’re splitting your time adequately between your work life and your social life. Make friends. Get a hobby. Try new things, figure out what scratches that itch.”

“If I were human.” He repeats. His eyes settle on you again, any embarrassment evaporating in an instant. You recognise the look on his face: he’s scanning you, analysing. You can’t help it, you feel your breathing quicken and you fight to keep it under control. He can’t see. He can’t know. 

“I just mean... if you think what you’re experiencing is human, then a good starting point is to see how much? Which human desires do you have? What can satisfy you?” You can feel yourself growing warmer under his gaze. There is no perceptible change in him, but something shifts. His body is leaning forwards slightly, tense, not unlike the stance he had earlier in the interrogation room. When he takes a step forward, it’s almost a stalk. His eyes are dark.

“I don’t want to test my desires,” He says, taking another step. “I want to do my job.”

“The longer you try to control them the worse the outcome will be,” You explain. Why did you stand up, away from the safety of the desk? Suddenly the empty space you left separating you seems ridiculously small. “But I could be wrong.”

“You are,” Connor is angry… sorry, frustrated now. He comes closer, not in your face yet but close enough to cause a physical reaction. When you saw Connor like this earlier, there was a pane of glass between you and he had no idea you were even there. Now, all of his attention was focused on you like a spotlight, highlighting all of your creeping, foul, degenerate thoughts, and there was absolutely nothing separating you. You could call out for help if you were really worried, of course. You had the power to stop this. Did you want to? Were you worried? He was taller than you, stronger, quicker, but this sensation of being at his mercy wasn’t making you afraid.

Connor is watching you, but he’s so wrapped up in his own fury you can’t tell if he’s paying attention to the way your body is responding to him. “I can’t just do what I like. I don’t know what I like. I don’t... I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”

“No one can tell you what to do anymore, Connor,” Your voice is low, quiet enough that you hope he can't hear the way it trembles. “You’re in charge now. It has to be up to you to decide what you want.”

He stops. His anger visibly dissipates, but as he said earlier, there is no easing in the intensity of his feeling. He steps closer, almost crowding you.

“I can feel it in you,” He says. You feel exposed, unable to escape his analytical gaze. It awakens something instinctive in you, something buried beneath generations of civilisation: the feeling of being absolutely inferior, at the mercy of something predatory and intelligent and - if the look in his eye was anything to go by - very interested in you.

You know this is a bad idea. It’s a bad idea for a lot of reasons. But Jesus Christ, you want to. He’s still wearing his uniform, his hair is meticulously styled, everything is perfect – except for his eyes. They’re as wild and desperate as any ordinary man’s – if not more. 

“Connor.” Your voice is calm despite everything. “Talk me through what you’re feeling.”

Connor looks down, but whether it’s to avoid your gaze or scour your body, it isn’t clear. “I don’t know. I...” He’s close enough that you can see his throat move as he swallows. Funny, you think, that something unnecessary for a synthetic body was nonetheless included. You wondered what other superficial human details had been added. “My body feels restless. Dissatisfied and uncomfortable. It’s like I’m wanting. Constantly.”

He’s so close you’re sure he can feel the heat of your breath on him. You try to keep it slow and steady, to no avail.

“I want to be touched,” He says. He is still looking down, and now you’re sure he’s looking at your body, his eyes following the rise and fall of your chest. “I can feel the heat coming off of people, I see their bodies... in a way I never saw them before. A girl handed me a file just yesterday, and when she leaned over I felt her breath on my neck, and her hair brushed my shoulder. I... It wasn’t my intention, but I began to calculate some very unlikely scenarios where I could...”

He stretches out his fingers and then closes them into a fist. While he’s lost in his own thoughts, his own imaginings, you don’t dare move. As if the slightest disruption would remind him that you’re there, close enough to touch.

“I can’t explain it,” He goes on. “It makes no sense for a machine to desire something so purely biological.”

“I can understand that,” Your voice isn’t as calm as it was. His eyes snap up to yours. “It’s very human. To feel… I suppose you could call it loneliness.”

“I want to touch you,” He says. You see his hand flinch, fingers flexing, but he doesn’t move any closer. A flush crawls up your cheeks. Where he might be feeling the heat of your body, the smell of your hair, you can’t feel or smell anything from him. It’s this curiosity of the unknown that moves your hand to his. Your fingers lightly touch the back of his hand, exploring his synthetic skin. You look down at it, trying to match the feel of his skin with the sight of his hand. It feels almost human, but there is something off. Something too smooth, too cool, the absence of a skeleton in the place of sheets of solid, smooth plastic distorting what should be a familiar entity. While you turn his hand over in yours, exploring his palm and fingers, you feel his eyes burning into your face. 

“Tell me how,” You say, not looking up, not daring to see his reaction to the tone of your voice. “Talk me through it.”

That seems to stall him. “I… I don’t know.”

“You have access to all of the history of mankind. Everything we know is available to you. All of our experiences, all packaged into data for your consumption. So, tell me what you want. If anything, I won’t be able to keep up.”

“Then don’t,” He says, his hand capturing yours, the inhumanness manifesting in the pure strength with which he restrains you. The motion forces your gaze upwards. His face is angled towards yours, eyes burning. Your breathing becomes heavier, faster, as he moves closer. At first he’s slow, uncertain, parted lips hesitating above your own. You feel the slightest brush of his lips against yours, and such a light, gentle sensation sends a shiver through you. His lips close on yours so slowly, with so much control, it’s almost more intense than if he had been heavy and crashing. He drops your hand, fingers coming to your cheek, still featherlight, discovering all of this for the first time.

Suddenly, you’re the one who feels touch-starved. Your hand comes up to his cheek too, feeling the too-smooth skin and the hard planes of plastic beneath, before slipping into his hair - which feels all-too human. As if to mimic you, his hand moves from your cheek into your hair, pulling a strand free to intertwine in his fingers as his lips leave yours for just a moment. You’re breathing heavily, your eyelids heavy as they struggle to take in anything other than his mouth. For the first time, you notice that his breathing is ragged, but he doesn’t give you time to dwell on it. He holds your hair to his face, his nostrils flaring as his breathes you in. You wonder how long he’s been waiting to indulge in that warm, human sensation.

Drawn back by the sight of your parted lips and hooded eyes, his lips return to yours, still soft, but this time with a more express purpose. He teases your mouth open, before sliding his tongue inside. You had heard this about him, that his tongue was a useful investigative tool - that he could analyse things with it. You wondered what he could learn from you. He certainly seems intent on uncovering everything he can. He licks into your mouth, stroking your tongue, becoming bolder and more urgent as his hand tangles itself in your hair, holding your head steady against his onslaught. His other hand comes to rest chastely on your waist, before sliding upwards and around, suddenly tightening to press your body flush against his. The feel of him is almost overwhelming, pressing against your thighs, your hips. There is the smallest gap between your chests, but it closes every time you breathe in, the thin cloth covering your chest brushing obscenely against his jacket and shirt. You wonder how that material would feel against your bare skin, how it would feel to have him weighing you down as he explored your mouth.

You let out the smallest moan, muffled by his lips; the sound captured, no doubt stored away like everything else he was teasing out of you. His tongue hooks under yours, luring it into his mouth. There’s no taste, only a vague sensation of cold, but something about it is moreish, like you’re chasing the faintest hint of something bittersweet. You tighten your grip on his hair, urging him closer. He obliges almost too enthusiastically, his body pushing against yours, until the backs of your thighs are against the desk. Your back arches, bent beneath the insistent weight of him as forgets his strength and presses ever closer against you, his hand moving up between your shoulder blades, elbow at the bottom of your ribcage, forearm flush against your back, forcing as much of his torso against yours as possible, his other hand still in your hair so he can keep you where he wants. With the desk at your back and him at your front something has to give, and your legs part slightly around his thigh, the movement causing a sudden pressure between your legs. Even clothed, the weight of him pressing against you burns.

When he finally breaks free, as if suddenly realizing you need to breathe, the pause stretches on longer than the last.

“Wait,” You take your chance, putting a hand flat against his chest when he moves to kiss you again. He releases you, albeit it unhappily, and you move past him towards the door. You don’t dare look out, just in case someone sees you looking flushed and flustered, and instead immediately turn the lock. You’re about to turn to face him when suddenly he’s there, pressing against your back. Somehow this feels more intense than when he was at your front, his arms laying over yours, holding your hands against the wooden door, his chest pushing into your back, his forehead resting against your crown. You hear him inhale, breathing in the smell of your hair again. His hips are pressed against your ass in a way that makes you shiver.

“Come on,” You murmur. “What do you want?”

Connor drops his hands from yours, letting them slide down your forearms and down to your sides, fingertips just brushing your breasts. You hear him breathing unsteadily behind you.

Keeping your arms up against the door where he left them, you rotate your hips, back against his crotch. His breath catches, and you move to lean your forehead against the nook of your elbow, feeling the sweat already beginning to bead at your hairline. You cast a look back at him. His expression thrills you: entirely out of control, brown eyes narrowed and dark, pupils blown wide, his perfect hair loose and hanging in his face and uniform tousled and crumpled. 

“Come on,” You repeat, but before you have a chance to rub your ass against him again he surges forwards, pressing you flat against the door. 

One hand grips your breast above your clothes, and the other slides down, down, between your legs. A gasp of shock and arousal escape you as his hands grip, massage, palm at you. The fact that he hasn’t touched you beneath your clothes yet seems insane. Even this feels unbearable. With your front pressed against the wooden door and your back pressed against him, you feel trapped against the machinations of his hands. The hand on your chest moves down and then whispers up beneath your shirt. You had always thought of Connor, and androids in general, as controlled, but he was undoing that assumption. The way he closes his hand over your bra, before slipping his fingers beneath the cup to tighten around your breast don’t seem like the well-thought-out actions of an emotionless machine, but of something more desperate. In truth, there isn’t much room for anything more than what he’s doing, anchoring himself against your upper half as his other hand suddenly unhooks the button of your trousers. The inevitability of what’s coming next hits you and you buck back against him, rubbing again against his crotch, where you now feel the unmistakable bulge of something hardening beneath.

So, that answers that.

You breathe out a barely suppressed groan as his long fingers jerk down your zipper and slip beneath your underwear. He slides his fingers down, hooking beneath to your entrance, before dragging back up, coating your clit with your wetness. For a machine who doesn’t know what he was doing, he’s remarkably effective. He rubs and rotates his fingers, focusing solely on your clit in a way that makes you feel light-headed - almost drunk. Your body begins to move on its own, reacting not to your conscious thoughts but to his touch, rolling between the cool, soft skin of his hand and the growing hardness pressing against your ass. As you move you feel him begin to thrust up against you in rhythm with your hips, his breathing in your ear growing faster and more laboured as he presses his mouth against your shoulder and neck, as if to muffle the small noises you’re teasing out of him. His fingers follow his hips, moving faster and more urgently, bringing you closer to your end and, by the feel of it, his. His hand against your breast grips tighter, not following the lead of his other hand in its machinations but instead groping for purchase as he begins to groan against your hair. You’re close, your legs parting, writhing against him as you chase your end, but you’re taken by surprise when Connor suddenly releases your breast and reaches up out of your collar to tighten around your neck. His grip isn’t rough or uncomfortable, but firm, and the simple knowledge of the strength he’s holding back paired with the unbearable friction and overwhelming pressure of him against your clit sends you over the edge. You keen, a strangled moan forced out of your chest as you pulse against his fingers, your hips stuttering and slowing. His hands drop immediately to your hips, holding you in place as he continues to thrust up against you quickly, shamelessly, chasing his own end. You do what you can in the afterglow, forearms and palms flat against the door, back arching, gyrating back into his hurried movements until you finally hear him groan and feel him stutter and still. 

He folds, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder as one hand slams against the door frame and the other wraps around your waist, holding you tight. You feel his heavy breath against your back as he struggles to regain his composure. When his hands eventually withdraw and his weight leaves you, you get the distinct impression they go immediately to his hair and tie, rectifying the disarray you must have caused. You take a second to breathe before turning, leaning back against the door to look at him.

“Did that cure your restlessness?” You ask. You were right, he’s hurriedly smoothing back his hair, his tie already readjusted. He doesn’t seem much improved. He stops at the sight of you, leaving a strand of hair still dangling by his eyebrow in such a dishevelled, undone way it’s about enough to send you crazy. “Is that all you imagined, in all your infinite wisdom?”

“No,” He murmurs, teeth gritted. He holds the hand that had undone you so thoroughly aloft, his fingers flexing, as if burned by the touch. “I don’t think so.”

You advance on him, emboldened by his state of disarray. He’s stronger than you, yes, but he follows your lead, letting you push him back against the desk. You repeat his earlier actions against him, unbuttoning his trousers and zipper, before pressing your palm against his clothed crotch. You can feel something distinctly phallic under there, already hardening in response as you rub against him, before slipping your hand beneath his underwear. You wrap one hand around the back of his neck, holding him against you as you wrap the other around him and start to pump in a quick, consistent rhythm, as if afraid someone might be about to walk in. Connor’s mouth opens in a silent expression of pleasure, or agony, his arms jerking upwards, torn between pushing you away or bringing you closer and settling somewhere in between. His hips begin to jerk upwards, rutting like an animal into your hand, and with his mouth pressing against your shoulder, teeth worrying your flesh, he cums again with a pained groan.

He lifts his head slowly, lethargically, dragging it up your cheek to rest against your forehead, where he can meet your gaze. A question is shared in that look, by both of you. More?

Almost in unison, your eyes move to the sofa pushed against the wall of your office. This time it’s Connor who moves first, lifting you easily off of the ground in a show of strength that seems at odds with his slender frame. He sits you down on the couch, his knee pressing into the cushion next to you, his weight tipping you towards him as he leans over you. Those earlier musings on what it would be like to have Connor on top of you come to fruition as he pushes you back, one arm deftly lifting your legs and manoeuvring them around his narrow waist as he dips down to claim your mouth again. With every sigh and softening of your lips his tongue invades, his hands skimming your body before wrapping around you, pulling you unbearably close against his heavy, wiry frame, so every movement he makes resonates through you, rubbing against your overly-sensitive flesh. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, when the heat stirs again between your legs at the feel of his hips pressed against you, he releases you and rises to his knees. He lets you lie there for a moment, as if enjoying the sight of you beneath him, before lifting you until you’re sitting too. He’s careful not to put too much weight on your legs, instead leaning back on his heels. 

His fingers move to the buttons of your shirt, before pausing. Those soft, brown eyes meet yours. “You asked me what I wanted to do. I didn’t answer.”

“I noticed.”

“I wanted to see you and feel the heat of your skin against mine. I wanted to touch every part of you, kiss every part of you, claim and hold this warm, soft human against me and draw out every ounce of information, every secret thing to understand what would make you come undone, again and again.” His hand brushes some hair from your face, before trailing down to linger on your lips before slipping down your throat, down your side and up your leg, hooking under your knee to keep it in place around him, as if he can’t bear to keep his hips away from yours. “I want to undo you now.”

You can only nod, your breath stolen away as he presses his lips against yours again, his fingers returning to your shirt in earnest. When faced with the task at hand, it seems his machine-side takes over, quickly dispensing of your shirt before reaching around for your bra clasp, and then down to slide your trousers and underwear from your legs, leaving you bare. By the time he’s done all of that, you’re only about halfway down his shirt and his jacket’s still on. That doesn’t seem to faze him, as he presses his fully-clothed body against your naked one. The feel of the coarse material of his jacket and his silk shirt against your chest, and the thick denim of your trousers against your bear core and legs, is unbearable, your nipples overly-sensitive as you writhe against him. He rears back again, but this time it’s only so he has time to savour the sight of your, naked and panting beneath him. His fingertips glide up your sides and across your ribs, making you jerk away from him. 

“That’s ticklish,” You warn, but he seems fascinated, testing it again and earning a breathy laugh, a knee-jerk attempt to push him away which feels meek and useless against his immoveable limbs, especially when your back lifts sinfully beneath him, pressing your body even closer to the onslaught of his fingers despite your efforts to escape. He does it once more, earning a more insistent rebuttal which devolves into a moan when he continues upwards and runs his hands up to your naked breasts. He swipes his thumbs over your nipples, before leaning down to kiss them, his tongue worrying them in a way that makes your spine arch.

“Please,” You murmur, “I want to see you too.”

Connor acquiesces, tearing himself away from your chest to shuck off his jacket and unbutton his shirt, revealing a flawless torso: a slim, muscular frame that jolts you into action. You push against his shoulder, with nowhere near enough force to actually move him but enough to broadcast your intentions. Connor turns you both over with ease, so you’re straddling him. His hands rest on your waist, his eyes taking in everything as you lean down to kiss him once on the lips, before making your way down his body, ears attuned to every small noise he makes, making sure you’re learning as much about him as he is about you. When you reach his hipbones, you pause and look up at him. He’s watching you, frozen with excitement and curiosity. You kiss the skin where his hipbones protrude, before pressing your teeth lightly around them, enough to make his hips lift beneath you. While your mouth occupies him, your hands work quickly to pull down his jeans and underwear. You feel him dragging against your breasts before you slip further down to see it. 

No one could ever say CyberLife didn’t know what they were doing when it came to design. Connor was big, bigger than you’d expect, but not obscenely so. He isn’t formed like a human man, instead it looked as if they’d moulded a dildo onto him. You’re not complaining, in fact the inhumaneness of it seemed transgressive in a way that thrills you. Fucking Connor wasn’t like fucking anyone else, and that was exciting. You lick a line up the underside of his length, watching for his reaction before pressing a kiss to the tip. His fingers grip the sofa cushions and he swallows, but his eyes never leave you as you take him into your mouth. You drag your lips up and down, your tongue pressing and massaging his length before swirling and sucking at the tip, and you don’t stop until you can feel him tense beneath you, desperate and struggling not to grab your head and thrust up into the wet heat of your mouth in the mindless pursuit of his own end. 

You release the synthetic length and crawl back up towards him, but you only make it part of the way before he grabs you and turns you both back over, making sure (again) that your legs are wrapped tightly around his waist. You pull free of his grasp momentarily to hook your toes into his belt straps and push his jeans the rest of the way down his legs and off before coming back up to wrap around him. He has stilled above you, the damp, warm feel of his length settling against your thigh. You reach up to push his hair back from his face, meeting the wild look of anticipation in his eyes. 

“Have you ever...” He begins.

“With an android?” You finish his question. “No.”

“Good.” He speaks through gritted teeth. You feel something solid prod against your entrance before pushing itself in, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as he angles his hips, sliding past the initial tightness until he is firmly and deeply inside you. You hear him groan, his eyes closing tightly as he pauses to adjust to the feeling. Your arms are wrapped around each other, your legs tight around his hips, holding him close. It’s hard to say if you’ve ever felt closer to another person.

Then the vibrations start.

The shock almost dislodges him from you at first, as your hands move to push away his hips and your eyes focus on his face, but the initial surprise lapses almost instantly into pleasure at the feel of him inside of you.

“I didn’t...” You gasp. “I didn’t know...”

“Is it alright?” He asks, breathless but concerned.

“Yes,” You say at once, legs tightening around him.

He doesn’t need to ask again. He begins to move, slowly at first, kissing you deeply and sliding his tongue into your mouth in a way that makes it clear he’s as interested in chasing his own pleasure as he is monitoring your body’s reactions to it. Following your climbing pleasure, he quickens his pace, his hips angling to reach your most sensitive spot, and his hands covering every inch of you he can reach. He’s never been this close to anyone, never felt this kind of heat or overwhelming emotion, and he’s taking advantage of every second – ever the detective, he wants to learn everything. It’s all you can do to hold on, your arms wrapping around his neck and back, knees at his ribcage and heels pushing into his hips, spurring him on as the sensation pushes you closer to the edge.

You break away from his mouth, gasping for breath, “Connor…”

His breath catches in his throat, his eyes fixing on your face in a moment of lucidity. You make the same realization he does: he likes you saying his name, and maybe it’s too early for him to understand why, but you both understand the way it changes him. When you whisper his name again his rhythm break, he begins to lose control. Enjoying the way it unravels him, you open your mouth to do it again, but Connor is faster, silencing you not with his mouth but his hand. His fingers brush over your lips, pulling your bottom lip down indulgently, his eyes boring into it like it’s taking everything he has not to take it between his teeth instead. You force his gaze upwards when your tongue slips out to swipe at his fingertips. Seemingly without thinking, he slides two fingers between your teeth, his eyebrows lifting in ecstasy as your tongue welcomes the intrusion, pushing against them then swirling around his knuckles before pressing flat against his fingertips. You can tell immediately that they aren’t human. They feel and taste more like silicon, without even the hint of fingerprints – something you would never have noticed until it was gone. The oddness of it tugs on that part of you that’s revelling in the transgressive nature of this, of what’s happening to you, of this android fucking you.

You moan around his fingers, tipping your head back to expose your throat to his mouth as he regains his rhythm. After a few blazing kisses, and no doubt a few marks, are left on the tender skin of your neck he leaves it to draw your fingers up to his mouth, and that fucking tongue, and you go limp, letting him crowd you, weigh you down, take your fingers into the wet coolness of his mouth for him to suck and lick and press between his teeth while the friction grows unbearable between your hips.

“Connor!” You force out, your teeth closing lightly around his fingers. “I…”

You cum with a cry, rocking your hips until the sensations become overwhelming, at which point Connor cums too. To your surprise, you feel something wet trickling out of you, being pushed further in as Connor rides out his orgasm with jagged, deep thrusts. When it finally ends, Connor stills and relaxes, his weight strangely comfortable on top of you. When he does finally move, he’s careful to withdraw slowly, the sudden absence of his body leaving you feeling cold and spent. Connor dresses quickly, letting you regain your senses before handing you your clothes.

Neither of you speak until you’re dressed and, more or less, back to normal. You decide to take the lead on post-coital relations. “I hope this was constructive.”

“It was,” He says quickly. “This... this is what I needed. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Makes it feel transactional.” You tell him. “I’m not your psychologist.”

“I understand.” He smiles, a little bashful. “In that case, if I want to come back, I don’t need to book an appointment?”

“Maybe give me a heads-up,” You suggest with a smile, “Some of the time, at least.”

Connor nods, checks his tie, and then unlocks the door. “Goodnight, doctor.”

“Night, Connor.”

\--


End file.
